The Investigation of Missing Margaret Holmes
by marval3
Summary: Margaret Holmes simply wanted to visit her brothers, who were both too preoccupied with work to pay her any mind. After an unfortunate turn of events Margaret is taken by a serial killer Sherlock and John were already investigating. Time is running out for the middle Holmes sibling, and doubt begins to flourish if the only way she'll be found is as another victim.
1. Chapter 1

**A/n **Hello everyone! This is my first Sherlock fanfic, hopefully it turns out alright. The way this story will be is shortish chapters, it depends on how long the scene is.

Enjoy

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ᴍᴏɴᴅᴀʏ — 7:48 ᴀᴍ

They received the call from Lestrade early that morning. He had given them little but only said it was important and to get to Llansannor Dr immediately. Sherlock had jumped at the opportunity to have a new case, especially one that the Yard needed help on. John was more on the reluctant side, he didn't appreciate driving thirty minutes across town on a two-minute phone call — adding on that Sherlock had woken him up for this.

But the pair arrived later just as the sun was rising.

John shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around him to try and preserve warmth. They were by a dock and wind blowing off of the water was cold, the layers of fabric provided little insulation. Police swarmed the area, silent lights flashed red and blue on top of police cars illuminating their faces when passed.

"What do you think is going on?" John asked to Sherlock, who didn't answer but peered inside an empty ambulance instead. As the man went exploring, John glanced around. When there was no sign of Lestrade he pressed his lips together in annoyance.

"Over here John." He snapped to attention as Sherlock slinked past a group of officers exiting a building. They paid him no mind and John thought it'd be best to quickly follow before they took notice that two men were out of place at a crime scene.

He had entered a small warehouse, and something caught his eye that caused his stomach to flip violently.

A man was strapped to a chair, dry blood covered him along with numerous wounds. His fingers were twisted, bone poking out in parts. A heavy chain was secured to one of his ankles, and the other was mangled as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. The eyes were gouged out and jaw broken so it hung open unnaturally. Sitting on the swollen tongue were the eyes. His shirt had been ripped open to reveal a message engraved in the skin,

_I SEE YOU MR HOLMES_

Sherlock leaned towards the body, his hand hovering over each of the words, mouthing them as his fingers moved along. Finally he stood and faced Lestrade a ghost of a smile.

"I'll take it."

ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴡᴇᴇᴋs ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ / ᴡᴇᴅɴᴇsᴅᴀʏ 3:16 ᴘᴍ

221B stood in front of her. Margaret pulled out the address Mycroft had given her a few days ago to make sure she was at the right place. She would be terribly embarrassed if she knocked on the wrong door. But just like the last thirty-six times she glanced at the paper, the writing had not changed. And so with a smile gracing her face, she knocked.

"Coming! Coming!" A muffled voice rang out from inside. Seconds later the door opened to reveal a small woman. She looked Margaret over once, surprise was in her eyes and she felt the woman didn't get many visitors — many _female_ visitors. The one in the doorway finally snapped from her daze and asked, "Hello dearie how may I help you?"

She remembered to keep her smile, it was always good to keep up appearances when greeting new people. "Is Sherlock in?"

A look of shock overtook her and she put a hand on her chest, leaning in to whisper, "Sherlock?!"

Margaret nodded eagerly. "Yes I would be delighted if you could point me in the right direct–" The woman's eyes gleaned with a mischievous flare as she suddenly ushered her in.

"He usually wouldn't take new clients when this busy but maybe he'll make an exception, the poor soul needs a break anyways. Come come I'll show you his room." She stood in the foyer for a few moments, holding onto her luggage and watched her march up the stairs all the while shouting Sherlock's name and about how 'there's a woman here to see you!'. With a sigh Margaret gripped her suitcase handle and began dragging it up the stairs. Each flight was tiresome but thankfully it was over soon.

She found the woman standing cautiously in a doorway. She noticed my arrival and exclaimed, "Sherlock she's here please come and greet her!"

"I've already told you Mrs. Hudson I do not want any–" A gunshot. Margaret gave the elderly woman a concerned look but she rolled her eyes like it was nothing to worry about, clearly she was used to Sherlock's behavior and didn't approve. "visitors while I am working this case."

Another voice spoke up sounding worn out, this one wasn't Sherlock's. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson but I don't think this is the time. Could you please turn her away?"

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands together, her lips pressed into a firm line before she scoffed. "Oh alright. But don't blame me about this missed opportunity!"

"What 'missed opportunity?'" Sherlock called out, enunciating letters mockingly.

The woman threw a hand in his direction but it couldn't be seen for a wall already separated them as she walked towards her. "I apologize but Sherlock doesn't seem to be in the mood to take on another case."

Margaret's lips twitched into a smile. "I'm hardly a _case_ Mrs. Hudson. But I would like to see him anyways."

Mrs. Hudson seemed worried, probably that he'd shoot her, but in the end she sighed and said, "Oh alright, be careful now."

She nodded, bypassing her. Leaving her luggage behind, she walked to the doorway and observed the room. Sherlock stood on a couch a bathrobe wrapped tightly around his waist, a gun was in his hand and he tapped it gently against his skull as he thought. The other man whose voice she hadn't recognized sat facing her. His eyes connected with her pale green ones and he straightened his back as if going to stand. "Can I help you?" He asked. Sherlock flipped around and aimed the gun at her, the man in the chair sighed moving to pinch the bridge of his nose.

However she was not fazed. Her eyes met Sherlock's and was satisfied to see him unease — confused even — for once. He lowered the gun and stuffed it between the belt and bathrobe. Slowly he got off the couch but didn't approach her.

The stranger in the room noticed Sherlock's odd behavior and asked, "Who is she? Do you know her, Sherlock?"

But his attention was focused on her. He questioned, "What are you doing here?"

Margaret raised her brows at him. But it was Sherlock she shouldn't expect a hug or anything. So she only shrugged and answered, "It's good to see you too, brother."


	2. Chapter 2

ᴡᴇᴅɴᴇsᴅᴀʏ 3:27 ᴘᴍ

"I don't have time for you Margaret."

She folded her arms in displeasure. "_Millie."_ She stressed. "You know I hate being called Margaret."

"Well it's your name, why would you want to be called by anything else but it?"

"Excuse me," The man — she learned his name was John — spoke up. "So she's your sister."

Sherlock turned in his direction continuing to speak rapidly, "Yes John please try to keep up."

John rolled his eyes. "Well excuse me it's just you've never mentioned a sister."

She laughed. "Don't be surprised, Mycroft and him don't bring up matters that aren't concerning in the present. But I think a formal introduction is in order." She stretched a hand out, he placed his in hers and they shook once. "Margaret Holmes — but call me Millie. I'm the middle child."

He smiled a little, but it faded and he appeared confused all over again. "So are you good at deducing like Sherlock?"

"Margaret is smart but not on the same level as Mycroft and I."

"So in simple terms a 'normal' Holmes sibling?"

Sherlock looked over to Margaret, his irritation gone and now regarding her with a blank expression. Finally, he answered, "No. Not in the least."


	3. Chapter 3

ᴡᴇᴅᴇɴᴇsᴅᴀʏ 3:56 ᴘᴍ

Sherlock was annoyed again. John was tired. And she had no idea what she did wrong.

Her brother rifled through the papers strewn on his desk. When he didn't find what he was looking for he groaned with frustration, spinning around the gun still in his hand before firing at a random spot in the wall. John and Margaret ducked for cover, a yelp escaping her lips as she crouched, her body going close to the floor. Her legs didn't straighten themselves until she saw Sherlock lowered his pistol.

"Sherlock...do you need help looking for anything?" She asked, hopeful that if she could that gun would get out of his hands.

He scowled in her direction. "No you cannot. I simply misplaced something, if I can focus I'll be able to remember where I put it."

John laughed. "You misplaced something? That's not a surprise. But honestly Sherlock, take a break, you haven't slept in days. Your sister–" He nodded in her direction, his voice pitching as if hinting at something, "is here." When no reaction was produced from his friend he sighed, turning his attention on her. "He's obsessed with this case we're working on ever since–"

"I am not — obsessed!" Sherlock shouted, his hands shaking in the air as he spoke vehemently. They quieted as Sherlock looked at them. "That's it, out. The both of you."

"Sherlock?" John asked looking puzzled.

Margaret leaned towards him and whispered, "I believe he's kicking us out."

"That's exactly what I'm doing. Now leave." Sherlock walked over to the door and opened it, waiting expectantly.

John grabbed his coat and stood. He seemed used to this. "Alright then, I'll be around so give me a ring if needed." The man left and Sherlock looked at her, jerking his head towards the door. Margaret sighed, she had only just gotten here after all. Her luggage didn't move from where it sat besides the couch; she would be back later.

She paused in front of Sherlock. Even though she was three years his senior he towered over her by at least four inches. As she fiddled with his collar she said, "It's nice to see you. Even if you're making me leave as soon as I get here." Margaret added on a chuckle to let him know she wasn't taking it personally.

His lips were pressed into a frown and he stared at her fingers messing with his shirt. "Yes...it's nice to see you as well. But I have a case that I need to–"

"Work, I know same with Mycroft." Her eyes rolled and she waved a hand dismissively.

Sherlock raised a brow. "And what did he have to say?"

A grin spread across her face. "Nothing interesting. But he was less curt — point to the eldest Holmes."

"Weren't you leaving?"

"Oh I forgot," Margaret gave Sherlock a quick, awkward hug. His arms came around and patted her back, then dropped to his side when she pulled away. Then she left.

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**A/n** thank you to the review/follows/favorites that were dropped!


	4. Chapter 4

ᴡᴇᴅɴᴇsᴅᴀʏ 10:54 ᴘᴍ

She had spent most of her day with John. He wanted to give Sherlock space — he gave her the gist of what was going on; serial killer case and no new evidence could be found. They walked around town before settling in a pub. After a few drinks it had already gotten late enough that John called himself a cab and headed back to his flat.

She was among three people who sat in the bar. The bartender leisurely dried off a glass, seeing as how it was a slow night and there was no need to rush. Her glass was empty and minutes later it was full courtesy of a man who had taken it upon himself to sit next to her.

"I would deliver a classic pickup line but you're more worthy of that, miss." The man spoke slurring his words slightly. Margaret inclined her head, acknowledging him, but didn't feel the need to pursue further than that. She ordered her own drink, ignoring the one the man had bought her, and sparingly sipped on it, all the while an eye flickering to the man beside her who couldn't stop fidgeting and was making her rather uncomfortable.

He did appear drunk but looked to have enough composure that she wouldn't recommend him finding another barstool.

Margaret downed the last of her liquor, deciding to close her tab as everything seemed to be getting an extra line around it. After an embarrassing exchange with the bartender, the conservation including parts where she drifted off into unintelligible sayings, she slowly pulled out her wallet, fumbling with the cash in the process. Finally the payment was on the counter and she was on her way out.

Entering outside Margaret found it was raining. Taking a step into the downpour she tilted her head towards the sky, letting the rain wash over her. She didn't know how long she stood there, with her head facing upwards, but when she realized she was shivering her arms wrapped around herself, fingers digging into her soaked body seeking for an ounce of warmth.

She squinted, trying to see in the darkness. Her lashes were heavy from collecting droplets of water, the offending item blurred her vision when she tried to blink; adding that to the lack of sunlight, her surroundings resembled a grey blob. Furiously her palms rubbed at her eyes, but it didn't change the way the alley looked. She grumbled indignantly, trudging on blindly. She just wanted to get out of here.

It appeared she made it back on the main street; the glow of streetlights could be seen illuminating partial pieces of the darkness, a stark contrast to the alleyway she'd been wandering in moments ago.

Margaret pulled out her phone, holding it close to her face to try and see what the blurry shapes meant. It looked like she was on the map app, or possibly her text messages. The bright idea to send a message to someone came to mind and as she was typing out a long, demanding text, a car pulled up beside her.

Her head turned slowly. A jolly smile overtook her face as she watched a familiar figure climb out, his lips pressed into a firm line that could only be recognized as disapproval.


	5. Chapter 5

ᴛʜᴜʀsᴅᴀʏ 2:35 ᴘᴍ

"Shouldn't you call her at least?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't even spare him a glance. "If she didn't come back that's her decision. It's up to her where she spends her nights."

John sighed exaggeratedly and ran a hand down his face. "Look I was with her until almost eleven last night and she already had a few drinks. She doesn't have a car and all her stuff is here, so it makes the most sense for her to come back to the flat, yes?"

After a few moments of Sherlock staring at the wall he said, "Hand me my phone."

A pleased look came across the doctor's face and he hurried to get it before the man could change his mind. Once in his hand Sherlock dialed the digits and held it up to his ear, waiting through the ringback tone impatiently. After four drones he was about to hang up when the voicemail message came on.

It was Margaret's voice, a cheery greeting and apology to have missed whomever's call.

He tapped his finger against the phone, waiting for her to stop talking. When she was finally done he snapped, "Margaret, John is worried for you, call him back." And promptly ended the call. He handed the phone back to John and looked pointedly at the man.

"Now, let's continue our work."


	6. Chapter 6

ᴛʜᴜʀsᴅᴀʏ 3:41 ᴘᴍ

A knock on 221B caught the attention of Mrs Hudson who was in the midst of pouring tea. Split between greeting guests and finishing the pour, her torn gaze flickered between the china and the door. It was decided when another knock sounded. Mrs Hudson tsked loudly, wobbling over to open the entrance.

"Yes?..." Her brows shot up at the sight before her. It was Sherlock's elder brother, Mycroft, with a miserable looking Margaret by his side.

Mycroft inclined his head in greeting. "Good day Mrs Hudson. Is Sherlock in?"

Hastily Mrs Hudson stepped aside opening the door further, ushering them in. She looked at the pair standing in the foyer and said, "Yes he is, do you want me to call him down for you?"

The man's lips curved into a slight frown. "No, no need." He glanced up the stairwell, then to Margaret. "Mrs Hudson would you mind watching over my sister?"

"No problem dearie."

While Mrs Hudson gently maneuvered Margaret into a seat, Mycroft thumped his way up the stairs and to his brother's flat.

The day Margaret appeared at his work had come as a surprise to Mycroft; as the last he'd heard of her was in Milan while she wasted her days away with a local. She never explained the reason behind her visit, frankly he would appreciate to know why dear sister showed up after not so much as a whisper for five years. Despite her being family, it was his job to be suspicious. Thus, he placed a surveillance team on her.

Then of course he finds out she became inebriated days after arriving in London.

Mycroft arrived at the top of the stairs, took a moment to straighten his clothing, and opened the door.

Sherlock was standing in front of a wall with an assortment of papers tacked onto it, red string sparingly appeared in sections connecting one or two photographs. John sat at a computer, rapidly typing away.

Upon Mycroft's entrance the two men turned their heads. John stumbled to his feet, glancing at Sherlock who'd locked in a stare with his brother.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked dismissively, turning back around to face the wall. "I'm busy."

Mycroft inhaled a deep breath, beginning to walk idly inside the room. "As was I, until last night, when I found Millie, intoxicated, wandering the nightly streets of London."

"Is she alright?" John asked, his voice pitched with alarm.

"Oh yes, she's quite alright, simply–"

"Quit your satirizing, Mycroft." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Margaret is a capable adult who does not require you nor I to look after her. If she wanted it, she would have asked for you to look over her shoulder while she spent her time here."

Mycroft raised his brows, lips pressing together at his brother's snarky comment. The man smoothed down his coat and turned towards the door. "Whatever you say, brother of mine." There was a pause, then Mycroft added on, "Millie is downstairs in the company of Mrs Hudson. If you will excuse me I have to get back to work."

John called a quiet farewell, seemingly out of place amidst the family drama. Sherlock only turned back to his wall.


	7. Chapter 7

ᴛʜᴜʀsᴅᴀʏ 11:06 ᴘᴍ

"I have a headache,"

Sherlock shot a disapproving look in Margaret's direction. She clutched a glass of water as she was sprawled out on his couch, drifting in and out of sleep. John had left for bed an hour ago and the thought to turn in for the night had piqued his interest, but his mind was too active thus he wasn't tired. In the meantime Sherlock busied himself with going over the killer's profile given to him by Giles. He had already examined it nine times; he didn't think the profile was very reliable as no new evidence had been found — albeit the killer was careful, not leaving any DNA or slip ups at the crime scenes that could tie back to him.

"Sherlock would you mind getting me more water?" Margaret's tired voice pierced through his concentration. He set his jaw, annoyance prickling underneath his skin.

Mildly, he answered, "The faucet is a short walk away." She groaned, but didn't protest and dragged herself to her feet. While she filled up her glass, he turned back to his work.

It was quiet, until Margaret spoke, "So what have you been up to?"

"Can't you see I'm trying to work?"

She attempted a smile. Margaret was used to Sherlock's standoffish behavior but she would enjoy a simple conversation right now. Sadly a 'simple conversation' with Sherlock was impossible. She wanted to know how he'd been, of course she could always ask John but it wouldn't be the same. So again she tried, "Yes, but it's late. And," She paused, taking on a lighter tone. "I've been gone for a bit, why don't we catch up?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped upwards, as if an idea suddenly came to him. He set down the papers in his hands and rounded on her. "Yes you have been gone for quite a while. Milan, was it? Mother and Father were worried when you didn't call for five years."

At his words Margaret retreated in on herself, her mouth drifting open and close silently, her once warm gaze grew uncomfortable and she began fidgeting with her cup, shifting it in her grasp every few seconds. Sherlock noticed her familiar tells, his sister had a secret.

Her lips pressed into a frown. "I'm terribly sorry about not contacting everyone for such a long time. I was in Milan, then an opportunity came when I was able to go to Naples. I had to find a new flat and — it was a very long process that I didn't enjoy, moving I mean." Her lips twisted upwards into a smile. "I think I just got caught up in everything that was going on."

Sherlock stared at Margaret in silence.

Moments later he inclined his head. "Of course."

Margaret suddenly yawned, stretched, and made her way back to the couch laying down. "I think I'll head to bed."

He nodded, observing his sister and her apparent fatigued self. "Yes, I think I'll do the same."

Sherlock began to head towards his bedroom when Margaret called out, "Goodnight!"

He paused, not turning back to look at her, muttering, "Goodnight."

When Sherlock had entered the confines of his room and secured the door, he pulled out his phone, navigating to the text messaging app. He sent only one text, although urgent.

**Call me ASAP - Sherlock**


	8. Chapter 8

ғʀɪᴅᴀʏ 6:45 ᴀᴍ

"Well I don't care Mycroft she's obviously lying." Sherlock spoke in a low voice, mindful to not awaken who was sleeping just down the hall.

Across the line Mycroft sighed, amidst his pause one could imagine the elder Holmes pinching the bridge of his nose. "So this story she spun, having to move to Naples, lying she may be but perhaps she just wanted time away from the family. In her mind the most polite way to say it was to say nothing at all?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No doubt time away from you."

Mycroft scoffed incredulously. "If I'm right you and Millie never got along, it's likely I'm not the one she hid from."

Their childish bickering was cut short as Sherlock steered the conversation towards a new subject, "Will you look into it?"

The man gave an inquisitive noise. "I will, I admit I myself am curious as to where Millie was during her five years away. But as it's not as important as my current work I can't guarantee when I'll have an answer. Is that all?"

"Yes."

Sherlock promptly ended the call, placing the phone onto a desk. He decided not to return to sleep, instead began the day with an early start.


	9. Chapter 9

ғʀɪᴅᴀʏ 11:28 ᴀᴍ

An hour ago Lestrade had alerted Sherlock and John about another body. Margaret was still asleep when Sherlock rushed out earlier and over to John's, hustling the man into a cab and over to the crime scene.

The body was found in an alley, obscured from street view as it was far in, propped up against the side of an overflowing dumpster. No cameras were mounted around, thus making identifying their killer harder to find, assuming no evidence linking back to him could be found on the corpse like the other victims.

"Well that's–" John coughed, covering his mouth at the rancid smell and stumbling back a few steps.

Sherlock brought his collar up over his nose, eyeing the already decomposing body. "It's been here for a few days. You said she was found this morning?" He asked Lestrade, who stood off to the side.

The man nodded. "One of the homeless wandered down here. We already got their statement."

"I'd like a copy of it." Sherlock stated, then moved his eyes to observe the corpse. Like with the victim from Llansannor Dr, there were distinct marks on the ankles where it appeared cuffs had been. He noted the feet were unharmed, not broken in with a hammer. The jaw was hanging open slightly, dry blood caked to the woman's chin caught his attention, and he acquired a glove from Lestrade to gently pull it down.

His brows knit together with curiosity. "She's missing her tongue."

John arched his brows. "Her tongue? What is it with him and cutting people?"

Lestrade pressed his lips together, glancing around to see if anyone was near, suddenly looking uncomfortable. He started, drawing the pair's eyes to him, "Look, we haven't been able to create a profile on this bastard. This is his eighth victim and they just keep getting worse." He paused to nod at passersby who came to move the body to the morgue. He continued, "What I'm trying to say is that I'm thankful for what you're doing on your end."

Sherlock nodded stiffly. "Yes. Of course you can take all the credit, Gerald, your team is doing fine work."

John opened his mouth to correct the man but shut it when he saw Lestrade wasn't bothered. Instead, Lestrade grinned even if it wasn't the response he was looking for.

"Right."

They stood in silence for a second until Sherlock announced. "Time to go John."

John watched as Sherlock's form retreated down the street, already hailing a cab. He hurriedly turned to Lestrade and rushed out a goodbye. He slid in the backseat just in time to hear Sherlock tell the driver,

"Baker Street."

They rode in a comfortable silence back to 221B, arriving near half past twelve. John paid the fare and met up with Sherlock who was waiting on the sidewalk.

"What do you think?" Sherlock questioned.

John angled his head to look at his companion. "About what? The murders?" He received a nod. "I think whoever is doing them is messed up in the head."

Sherlock's eyes rolled as he reached to open the door. "Yes. No normal person would go out killing and torturing eight people, John. I was asking about the bodies. Did you notice anything?"

They had entered the foyer. Sherlock made to go up the stairs while the other lingered down, hoping to catch Mrs Hudson to see if she had any scones even if it wasn't tea time yet. He was hungry.

John turned back to Sherlock, knowing the answer to his question. "I gave the body a once over. It has a lot of similar markings as the last victim so I _assume_ that the same killer did it. Although it looked like the killer showed restraint; not breaking the feet and there's less physical trauma."

A ghost of a smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "Very good. But, perhaps it was not restraint only the last was was extremely violent simply to send a message."

A challenge to Sherlock Holmes.

A loud thump from the room over disturbed them. Confusion flashed across their faces and the pair hastened to see what it was.

Mrs Hudson kneeled on the floor, her back to them.

"Oh Mrs Hudson!" John exclaimed, rushing over to help her stand "Hold on one second." His arms looped around her bent elbows, pulling her up and—

"Bloody hell!" John swore in shock as he turned the woman around.

Blood poured out of multiple stab wounds in her abdomen, her skin was already an unhealthy pale and suddenly her legs buckled underneath.

Sherlock caught Mrs Hudson before she could collide with the floor. The man cradled her head in his lap, gripping her hand as it drifted up, tugging weekly on his shirt.

John stood above in a daze; eyes flickering to the blood pooled on the floor, his mind running over the possibilities of her survival, which were very low. She had lost a lot of blood and with multiple stab wounds gushing the liquid out, she would bleed out before they reached a hospital.

"John!" Sherlock yelled. They met eyes. Both knew it was too late but none could bear to say it aloud, none could bear not to try and save her.

John got to work, slipping off his shirt and advising Sherlock to keep pressure on the wounds with the makeshift bandages. The bleeding wouldn't stop and it seemed Mrs Hudson was slipping away faster by the minute. He couldn't recall if it was him or Sherlock who called 112, but emergency responders flooded the apartment later on.

Mrs Hudson was already dead.

The two men who were covered in blood gave statements, then the Yard took over and opened an investigation into the murder. Lestrade arrived, urging both of them to leave while the Yard did their work, not allowing them to interfere after what they just went through. The body stayed in the house until forensics had done their job, it wasn't until late that night that it was moved to the morgue.

After a day he'd rather forget, Sherlock trudged upstairs to his flat. John had already gone home, the man barely spoke a word.

Sherlock pondered over who could have killed Mrs Hudson and the only liable conclusion he'd come up with was his enemy; the killer. But to murder her randomly, and so out of his already random pattern, only turned him into even more of a conundrum. He would throw himself back into work tomorrow, but now he wanted to sleep.

Opening up the door he was faced with an empty couch. His lips pressed into a slight frown as he wondered over Margaret's whereabouts.

Likely at another pub.

He dismissed her well-being and headed towards his room, although something caught his eye. It was a cream colored envelope, propped up on his windowsill. Cautiously, he made his way over to the strange object. The police hadn't searched his flat — he made a good argument about it, he hadn't thought the killer would have paid him a visit.

The letter was opened and its casing discarded. Inside was a thin piece of paper, with a sniff he found it to be odorless. On it read,

**Soon.**

Sherlock was momentarily confused, then it clicked. With unsteady hands he pulled out his phone, first dialing John. It went to voicemail.

"John I know you're around, don't go getting yourself _shit faced drunk_. I need you. Come back to the flat please."

He paused before making his next call. Both to consider if he really wanted to inform his brother of this and to examine the damning text another time. He inhaled deeply, holding the phone up to his ear as it rang.

To no surprise, Mycroft answered.

"Hello?" Sherlock was silent, turning words over in his mind which prompted Mycroft to say, "Who is this?"

"Me. It's Margaret, she's gone." He put bluntly.

There was shuffling on the other end, a moment's pause before, "Gone? What do you mean?"

"I mean she was taken, kidnapped. Did you understand that?" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft went quiet on his side. "I'm coming over." Then he hung up. Sherlock blanched at the thought of Mycroft visiting now.

He drifted over to his chair and sat in it, enjoying the familiarity that came with the fabric. By the time Mycroft came, two hours later, he was still sitting unmoving in that chair.


	10. Chapter 10

sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ 2:02 ᴀᴍ

Mycroft opened the door to his brother's flat cautiously. Margaret's kidnapping was first and foremost in his mind, but then the police informed him of Mrs Hudson's murder and now he worried for Sherlock.

The air was quiet. No light was on as he entered. Mycroft's eyes soon adjusted to the darkness and he observed a figure resting in a chair across. Wordlessly, he moved to turn on a lamp, illuminating the room.

Sherlock sat with his hands folded over his lap, the skin smeared with sticky blood. Slow drying splotches of blood littered his shirt, the red not as noticeable on his black pants.

Mycroft tilted his head, his tongue leaving the roof of his mouth. "Oh Sherlock."

The one in question looked up to his brother, his gaze scattered before focusing. "It's not mine."

Mycroft knew that. He took a moment to scan Sherlock before moving over to him. "Get up." Eyes snapped up to him, staring blankly, before it was elaborated, "You can't very well be planning to go about your day like this? Off to the showers."

Sherlock stayed sitting for a moment, his mouth twisting into a frown, then abruptly he stalked towards the bathroom. When Mycroft heard water running for confirmation that a shower was happening, he began rummaging through drawers for clothing.

A kettle was put on for tea and by the time Sherlock was done it had blown its whistle.

Two cups were poured, and in silence, they drank.


	11. Chapter 11

sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ 2:21 ᴀᴍ

John's phone went to voicemail again. Sherlock hardened his gaze at his phone, tossing it onto the coffee table.

"Perhaps he's asleep." Mycroft suggested nonchalantly.

"Not likely."

Despite Sherlock being miffed over John not answering his phone, Mycroft saw that he appeared to be doing better than he was when he'd arrived. He decided he couldn't wait any longer and launched a conversation starter,

"Would you care to be more specific about what happened to Millie?"

Sherlock glanced his brother's way. "Weeks ago I was brought on an ongoing investigation into a serial killer. It's amazing how careful he is, not even I have been able to find anything. There's nothing in common with the victims, they're plucked across London, social status is not a factor. No cameras and no records of anyone seeing anything at the time the body was dumped. The corpse itself is impeccably clean; aside from it being covered in wounds, there's no DNA, defensive wounds, _nothing_ to tie back to the killer. The victims aren't reported missing as they were in situations where no one would worry for them, they appear dead days later." Sherlock's expression turned flat. "And that's how Margaret will be found unless I can find him. He's disappointed I've taken this long to catch him. With the right motivation, he thinks I'll summon a notion."

Mycroft swallowed the lump in his throat. The outlook wasn't too good.

"At least Millie has people looking for her, think of it as a head start." He offered to his brother, who no doubt needed something to cheer him up — though Mycroft hated giving words of comfort so his words sounded forced.

Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly. "It's not a head start if she's already dead."

Mycroft's brows raised high. "Is that what you think?" Sherlock didn't acknowledge the question, only continued to glare straight ahead. Mycroft stood, grabbing his coat from the armchair in a smooth motion and walking over to the door. "I'll have my own people looking for her. When you're done moping around, no doubt she'll appreciate the help."

He twisted the door handle, flinging it open. As Mycroft went to take a step out he jerked aside, almost colliding with the figure lingering in the doorway. He regarded John for a moment, offered a word of condolence, then was on his way.


	12. Chapter 12

sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ 2:32 ᴀᴍ

Sherlock stood when John entered the room. The doctor bore a fresh set of clothes, the red gone from his skin.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Thank you for coming. Clearly, it's not the best time, but I need to talk to you–"

"No." John pressed his lips together, he did a quick shake of his head. He raised a hand, shaking a finger for emphasis on words, "I just spent the past hour washing Mrs Hudson's blood off my hands. I'm not really in the mood to hear whatever you have to say."

"Then why did you come?"

John was at a loss for a second, thinking it over. Perhaps it was because on the voicemail Sherlock sounded desperate, which the man rarely does, and even though John wanted to be alone he'd rather Sherlock not go on another bender.

John shrugged. "I don't know. Why–What did you want to tell me?"

"Margaret," The note left behind from the killer was placed in John's hands, who regarded it with a perplexed gaze. "was taken. Mrs Hudson just happened to be at the wrong place, wrong time."

Just now noticing the lack of the Holmes sibling, John turned his head around. His brows knit together, and the man glanced down at the note again, his eyes finally moving over to the detective. "Bloody hell Sherlock. Are you alright?"

Sherlock was indifferent at the question. "I'm fine. We need to prioritize finding Margaret, Mycroft has his people looking for her but there's no guarantee. There are street cameras positioned on Baker Street, if the Yard hasn't already we'll ask them to–"

"Sherlock slow down," John cut in. "It's half past two, wouldn't it be better to do it in the morning?"

"And be awakened to Gillard knocking on the door announcing they located Margaret's corpse?" His tone indicated he wasn't going to budge.

Air exhaled through John's nose as he sighed. "I'll be on the couch, then."

Sherlock continued to reexamine the little evidence he had, John joined sporadically until he drifted off to sleep. At some point later in the night, doors swung open and shut as Sherlock rushed out and onto the streets.


	13. Chapter 13

sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ 10:56 ᴀᴍ

John awoke to an empty flat. The first thing he did was call Sherlock, and frustration blossomed when he heard the ringing echo in the room. He pocketed the man's phone, clicking it on and saw missed texts and a call from Mycroft. Then he slipped on his coat, and headed outside.

He wandered the streets, checking pubs along the way or asking strangers if they'd seen Sherlock Holmes. All he received was a blank look and a shake of the head. After half an hour of searching, he was about to call it quits when by chance he glanced in an alleyway and saw a familiar looking figure speaking animatedly. Relief turned to annoyance and he called sharply, "Sherlock!" and marched into the alley. "Where have you been?!" The man turned towards him, appearing to have something to say, but John was still cross. "You can't just disappear like that. And here," He handed Sherlock his phone.

The detective regarded the object for a moment, slid it into a pocket, then said, "I had a matter to attend to."

"What matter?"

Sherlock inclined his head to the side, and John's eyes moved to see a woman that he hadn't noticed before. She was small of stature, crouching against the wall. Her ragged clothes and unkempt appearance led John to think she was one of Sherlock's connections in the homeless network.

"This is Ms Jones. She called last night, saying she witnessed the recent body being deposited. She's willing to give a description."

John's eyes widened incredulously. "You're joking." He turned on the woman, asking her, "How well did you see the killer?"

Ms Jones' cool gaze flickered up to John. "I saw enough."

"How well is enough?"

"John." Sherlock spoke in a flat tone. "I assure you I already went over this before you arrived."

John was hesitant to not continue, but he nodded in understanding. "It seems too easy."

"Isn't it always? — Call Mycroft." Sherlock swung the conversation in a different direction. When he received a questioning look he elaborated, "Remember? My brother invested his people to find Margaret. He'll want to know about this."

His brows raised in remembrance at the mentioning of Mycroft's involvement in the investigation. As John was dialing, he asked, "What about the Yard?"

Sherlock shrugged dismissively.


	14. Chapter 14

sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ 12:02ᴘᴍ

Mycroft was hosting the search at an old safehouse, one with ample space and utilities for his people to set up and go about their business.

Mycroft checked his watch, Sherlock should be here any minute. On schedule, a cab turned the corner closing the distance and pulled up to the curb beside him. Mycroft stepped aside as the door opened.

John was the first one out of the cab. They exchanged greetings. Next was a woman who Mycroft had to guess was the one who allegedly saw the killer's face. And finally Sherlock.

"Pay the man won't you?" Sherlock told him as he brushed by.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in annoyance. Nonetheless he pulled out his wallet, bent down and asked the driver, "How much?"

After dealing with the cabbie, Mycroft headed inside and was pleased to see that his people had already took the woman to see the sketch artist. He walked to where Sherlock and John sat, separate from the ones working.

"Hello." Mycroft greeted as he approached.

John gave a wave, Sherlock's eyes flickered up to acknowledge his presence.

"How long do you think it'll take?" John asked, addressing the sketch.

"An hour, maybe more, maybe less." Mycroft vaguely gestured to refreshments that were situated on a counter and a mini fridge. "Help yourself."

John shook his head. "Oh I'm alright, thank you."

Sherlock didn't bother commenting, and remained both silent and unmoving until they had an update from the sketch artist, thirty-five minutes later.

A woman came to retrieve Mycroft, they exchanged hushed words and his features drew tight before both of them walked away.

"Wonder what's that about…" John's voice drifted off. His attention snapped to Sherlock as the man stood up and walked over to the hallway Mycroft had gone down, glanced down it, then hastily followed. John stared blankly after him for a few seconds, then decided he should probably go after him in case he needed to attempt to reel him in so he wouldn't get in any more trouble.

John was able to see the Sherlock down the hall as he turned into a room. He jogged to catch up, then hesitantly gripped the handle and pushed open the door.

Inside was a one-way mirror looking into an interrogation room. Which piqued his interest, as this was supposed to be a safe house so why would they need an interrogation room? Ms Jones was sitting facing us, on the other side of the table was Mycroft. He was bent over the table, a hand jabbing at a piece of paper.

The speakers that carried sound between rooms were off as whatever Mycroft was talking about only reached them muffled. Moments passed, then Mycroft stood, brushed down his coat and left the room.

John nodded towards the door. "Aren't you going to ask him what's going on?"

"What a brilliant idea." Sherlock replied with a hint of sarcasm, already moving to leave. In the hallway, they weren't that far behind the elder Holmes. "Mycroft!" Sherlock called out, causing the brother to spin on his heels.

"Yes?" He replied, curt.

"What was that about?"

Mycroft fingered the paper he held in his hands, glanced at it, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "The woman you brought in. Our sketch artist recognized who she was drawing."

"Well that's good, right?" John prompted. The hope in him dwindled after seeing more than the usual gravitas in the man.

Sherlock ventured to ask, "Who was it?"

Mycroft met eyes with his brother. "It was you."


	15. Chapter 15

sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ 12:57 ᴘᴍ

Agatha Jones had been evicted from her apartment two years ago after failing to pay rent. It took awhile to get adjusted to being homeless. She had no other family in London and couldn't hold a job long enough to raise money to visit them. She wondered if they cared that she was surviving by the skin of her teeth. A week ago things had gotten bad — really bad. Then out of all things; she found a coffee can with $10,000 inside and an envelope beside her when she awoke with instructions on where to be — what to do and say — in a timeframe. She would receive another $10,000 if the task was completed.

Whomever had charged her with this was no doubt up to no good; a person that paid another to interfere with an investigation by giving a false statement likely had ties with illegal activity. Yet the fear of the consequences from committing illegal acts herself fled her mind as the desperation to get the other $10,000 and to get back on her feet overwhelmed her.

In the alleyway she'd been told to go the man Sherlock Holmes had approached her asking if she'd seen anything pertaining to the recent murder. Agatha told him what she'd been told to say. "I saw his face, the killer I mean, as he dumped the body."

And then to the sketch artist, "No more curly. He had dark hair, and I remember these striking eyes." It was a rough sketch and a half an hour in the artist recognized who she was drawing and retrieved the man who'd introduced himself as Mycroft Holmes upon her arrival. He was not happy.

Agatha waited, trying to anticipate what was coming next. Seconds ago Mycroft had stalked from the room. He knew she was lying, what would he do?

The door banged open and both the sketch artist and Agatha started. Sherlock led followed closely by John then Mycroft. There was a tense moment of silence where the three of them stared at her, then Mycroft cleared his throat and spoke addressing the sketch artist. "Would you excuse us?"

The woman beside her gave a tight smile, stood and smoothed out her skirt. Her heels produced frantic clicks as she rushed out of the room. When they were alone Sherlock took one large step forward and slapped the sketch onto the table. He asked his tone acidic, "We don't have time for jokes. Who are you?"

Agatha's eyes lingered on the sketch, her mouth going dry as she was inevitably caught in the lie. Thankfully the letter had provided a way to sway the conversation away from an intense interrogation. She faced Sherlock, keeping her tone even. "I'm sorry if he–" Agatha nodded at Mycroft. "mistook this for you. It was dark and this is roughly the man I saw."

Mycroft's face twitched. He laid a hand on his brother's tense shoulder and maneuvered him to the corner of the room, John trailed along. He said quietly, "This is the killer using her as a proxy to get to you, brother. I say we find out his connection to her."

"And if she won't talk?" Sherlock inquired, an edge to his voice. "We currently know nothing about her. Run her prints, facial recognition. Her past could be an angle to exploit."

"Would I be able to ask her some questions?" John spoke up calmly.

Mycroft scanned the man, then inclined his head in agreement. He knew Sherlock was wound up at the moment and he'd rather him not explode at the girl so he added, "Alone."

John glanced at Sherlock who remained silent, not so much in anger rather in thought, and bobbed his head. Sherlock abruptly left their circle and pulled out his phone, snapping a picture of the woman who blinked multiple times, taken aback.

"Hey!" Agatha yelled, indignant. "You can't just take a picture of me!"

John drifted over to beside his friend. "What are you doing Sherlock?"

Sherlock had just sent the picture to a group chat. "Using my own methods to discovering Ms Jones' identity." He pocketed his phone then straightened the collar of his coat. "If anyone needs me I'll be roaming the streets of London. Goodbye John, I trust you'll be able to handle things here."

Sherlock brushed out of the room and John irked a brow asking the other Holmes brother, "Should one of us go after him?"

Mycroft shook his head. "He'll be fine." He paused, glancing back towards the woman who was twiddling her fingers with great concentration. "I assume you will be questioning Ms Jones now?"

John nodded. "Yes — Yes, now."

Mycroft's lips turned upwards slightly and he offered encouragement, "Good luck. I expect you'll inform me if anything valuable comes out of talking to her."

"No doubt." John's brows came together as he gave the assurance. They regarded each other for a second longer, then Mycroft left the room to complete other duties.

* * *

**A/n **Sorry for not updating in a really long time! Another chapter should be out relatively soon. Thank you to everyone who favorited/followed!


	16. Chapter 16

sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ 1:32 ᴘᴍ

Mycroft's people had come in after the man himself left to retrieve prints and photos of the woman. She was given a questionnaire asking for her full name, her last employment and address. She refused to fill it out and stated that if she wasn't being charged that they had to release her.

"What you're doing is wrong. You can't hold me without charges."

John adjusted himself in his seat, a breathless chuckle falling from his lips. "And what you did wasn't wrong? Giving a false statement and wasting valuable time for an investigation?"

Ms Jones leaned forward, her lips pressed together in a tight line. "I didn't lie. I saw what I saw."

John splayed his hands out in front of him, rotating them slowly as he spoke. "Are you sure you weren't offered a deal of some sorts?"

The woman stilled, even if it was short as the blink of an eye John noticed it. She was quick to recover although. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"A deal with the serial killer that's been running around London." He deadpanned. "He might not of dealt with you directly but there had to be some way the two of you talked."

Ms Jones shrugged, remaining indifferent.

John sighed, a hand clasping the back of his neck. "Whatever was offered I'm sure we can get it — if you tell us what we want to know."

She averted her eyes to the table, her fingertips coming together to fidget in the silence. Stiffly, Agatha shook her head. "There was no deal. I know what I saw."

John's unrelenting gaze stared down the woman, his lips pressed together in frustration. "Alright," He pushed off the table and strode from the room.

"She is a stubborn one." Mycroft was waiting outside standing so close to the wall his back nearly brushed it.

John took a moment to shut the door behind him before answering. "Yes — yes she is."

"I wonder what he offered her. Money? That's what everyone usually wants. Humans are so easily exploited by greed it sometimes disgusts me."

John nodded solemnly. "I agree."

"Anyways–" Mycroft inhaled sharply. "you tried. One of my people is already waiting to try and convince Ms Jones to divulge her secrets."

"Oh," John raised his brows. He somehow felt that when Mycroft's people got involved in questioning it meant that things could become unpleasant.

John offered a smile. "Hopefully they get something."

Mycroft agreed.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/n **Thank you to everyone who's followed & favorited :) !

* * *

sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ 1:35 ᴘᴍ

It had been almost forty minutes since Sherlock left Mycroft's, currently Sherlock was settled into the back of a cab.

As the car moved down the street in glacial increments he yet again checked his phone for any new notifications. A group chat he released the photo of Ms. Jones to was silent except for the occasional texts that no one knew anything, no helpful information had come to light. In the meanwhile he decided to check in with the homeless network.

In the journey over to a known location of one of his contacts amidst a late afternoon traffic, Sherlock felt his head jerking down as a wave of fatigue hit him. He tried to recall when was the last time he'd slept; it had to have been Thursday night, the last day with a semblance of normality.

He wouldn't sleep though, there wasn't any time. And so to busy his mind and to wish away thoughts of slumber, he looked out the window and focused on the people walking by; deducing what he could at a distance.

Due to the traffic it took an extra twenty minutes for the cab to arrive at Sherlock's destination. He paid the driver and heaved himself outside, breathing the crisp air in a deep inhalation.

He lingered on the sidewalk, running his eyes down to a park which lay to his right. He noticed a cluster of people near benches, carts sat idly by. He spotted a few familiar faces and Sherlock decided to greet them first.

"Hello Rosie," Sherlock greeted a middle-aged woman. Upon realizing it was Sherlock, she cracked a smile.

"Hello Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you?"

He retrieved his phone and pulled up the picture. "Have you seen this woman?"

Rosie leaned forward, squinting her blue eyes. After a second she shook her head. "No I'm sorry, I haven't." Sherlock wasn't that upset at the answer, he was gradually getting used to not finding anything.

He nodded curtly then moved on to another person.

Sherlock remained in the park for fifteen minutes, questioning the group. He was three-quarters of the way through with no luck when he caught a break.

An elderly man recognized Ms. Jones and gave the location of where she sleeps. Sherlock paid the man £100 then left to hail a cab.


	18. Chapter 18

sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ 2:38 ᴘᴍ

Sherlock cautiously walked down a darkened alleyway that held a pungent smell of rubbish and piss. An overflowing dumpster crowded the pathway and Sherlock squeezed close to the wall to be able to make it through. When he came out the other side he paused, his gaze landing on a large box with blankets inside. He glanced down the alleyway and saw that the remainder of it was empty; this must be Ms. Jones' abode.

Sherlock retrieved a pencil from his pocket and knelt down, using the tip of the utensil to poke around.

Flipping over the blanket he found a coffee container; there was a familiar cream colored envelope with Jones' name on it that made it undeniable that Jones was involved with the killer. Sherlock also found a piece of tupperware placed conspicuously outside the box, on it was another envelope which drew his suspicion to the next level.

His jaw set. The urge to touch the paper was almost irresistible yet he instead used the pencil to flip the tupperware over to look inside.

What he saw caused his breath to catch in his throat.

There was something that appeared to look like sauce, then upon closer inspection he saw that it didn't have the same texture; and there was an object inside, roughly four inches long. He discovered it to be a finger.

No longer caring about covering the evidence with his prints, Sherlock grabbed the letter and ripped it open. Printed in bold letters were the same four words that had been engraved in the body which pulled him into this gruesome case:

_I SEE YOU MR HOLMES_

He scowled. In a fit of rage he crumpled the paper and threw it at the wall; it fell pathetically to the cold ground. He turned his attention back to the finger encased in the box and knew with almost certainty that it belonged to Margaret. His anger ebbed, and the foreign emotion of remorse replaced it. Sherlock felt guilty for not being able to save Margaret, his incompetence was allowing her to be tortured at the hands of a serial killer. He had let Mrs. Hudson to be killed. If he had captured the killer sooner then she would still be alive.

Sherlock sat down, the weight of everything hitting him all at once.

It being the killer's goal or not he realized that they had wormed their way inside his head and Sherlock now felt that anything the killer did, anyone they murdered, was his fault. They wanted Sherlock to stop them yet he couldn't, for once he was outmatched, and his sister would die because of it.

He vaguely remembered calling John to update him of the situation, then there was a welcoming darkness as he passed out.

* * *

**A/n **Thank you _Mysteryman13 _for your review!


	19. Chapter 19

sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ 8:00 ᴘᴍ

Mycroft sat alone in the room he claimed for himself at the safe house. Between two fingers he absently spun a pen, twirling it as he waited for an update from his forensic unit who was currently running a test to see if the fingerprint from the new evidence matched Millie's.

Ten minutes passed and two knocks sounded on the door. Mycroft straightened in his chair and called out, "Come in."

The woman who entered wasn't anyone who was on his team. He raised a brow, silently running his eyes over her as she stood awkwardly in the doorway; then her face clicked. The task he'd assigned to the woman had faded to the back of his mind, and due to the current state of things with his sister he wasn't very interested in what it had to say.

"Ms. Walsh. How did you find me?"

Ms. Walsh gave a tight smile. "I asked your secretary. Here," Mycroft took the manilla envelope he was offered, simultaneously creating a mental note to find a new secretary.

"Thank you. If that's all?" He gestured toward the door. The woman gave a hurried goodbye and promptly left.

Mycroft placed the thin folder on the desk, his hand gingerly hovering over it. It was Sherlock who had made him investigate their sister's whereabouts before her arriving in London; Mycroft believed his brother to be paranoid and certainly after Millie's kidnapping he would never have thought twice about…

His thoughts trailed off to the past. To a time when Eurus was around and her and Margaret were thick as thieves. Then something happened between Eurus and Margaret that changed them both. It was after Victor Trevor yet before the burning of the family mansion.

The pair of them went out for a walk one day and disappeared for two nights. Eurus returned alone, and Margaret was discovered unconscious in a bed of leaves. Throughout the following month, Margaret had a range of episodes and was thus placed on an antipsychotic; and Eurus quietly spiraled.

Both sisters were silent on what exactly occurred those days in the woods.

In the present, was it possible that Margaret stopped taking her medication? Mycroft never remembered his sister to be violent, but could she have developed new symptoms or another disorder?

Mycroft's fingertips slid forward and pulled open the folder. Inside were two sheets of paper. The first was a still from a security camera in the London Underground with a timestamp from four months ago. A red circle highlighted an image in the black and white photo; a woman deboarding a train. Mycroft reluctantly looked to the bottom of the page where a different, clearer picture was depicted of the same woman who in this image bore a striking resemblance to Margaret. The final page was a typed report from Ms. Walsh. She wrote that she used facial recognition against the second image from the Underground and it matched Margaret. It's confirmed that Margaret arrived in London four months ago.

Confusion webbed his mind as he tried to fill in the missing pieces to the puzzle. Why had Margaret not come to them sooner? Where had she been during those four months?

Four months.

An unsettling thought occurred to Mycroft. Four months ago was around when the killings began. Was it possible that a mentally unstable Margaret arrived in London and for some reason was the one doing this? The longer he mulled it over the easier the pieces fit into place. It made sense for Margaret to be Sherlock's impossible-to-catch adversary. She was smart, by staying close to Sherlock she had that advantage of always staying one step ahead.

Thinking of Sherlock caused Mycroft to feel worried for his little brother. Margaret's twisted game caused Sherlock's life to go into utter disarray. Once he learns it was the person he was desperately trying to save who was pulling the strings...

Mycroft shook his head, his voice coming out as a disappointed whisper, "Margaret,"

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**A/n** I actually wasn't going to mention Eurus in here but there's some of Margaret's background info as to why she's like that!

And _Mysteryman13_ you called the twist with your other review! I wanted to respond to it but I didn't want to spoil anything haha.


	20. Chapter 20

sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ 8:14 ᴘᴍ

Mycroft slid into the room where Sherlock was resting. The lights were off. The buzz of a fan created a white noise which overruled the incessant chatter of the workers buzzing about even at a later hour. Mycroft promptly flicked on the lights and watched as his brother startled from his cocoon of bedsheets. "It's time to get up."

Sherlock propped his elbow up on the bed and rested his head in hand. He scrutinized Mycroft through an unexpressive gaze, taking note of the folder his brother held. Sherlock asked shortly, "What?"

Mycroft drew the folder into his hands. He spoke at a slow pace. "You asked for the whereabouts of Margaret for where she was when she was missing for five years."

"I don't think that's relevant now."

The folder was pushed into Sherlock's lap and Mycroft said firmly, "Open it." Sherlock raised a brow questioningly, an eye glimpsing the manila surface to search for any identifying features. When he found none he slipped a finger under the cover and opened it.

The photos struck him first. There were two: in the second a clear image of Margaret had been captured. He read the report in silence. A quiet turmoil was stirring within, rapidly drawing him out of the clutches of slumber. When he was done Sherlock set the folder onto the bed and stood up, resting his hands on his hips. "What is this?"

Mycroft set his jaw. "Our dear sister has manipulated the both of us. That is the truth behind our mystery, the reason why she can't be found." The room fell into a tense quiet. Mycroft stood rigid, his stony exterior observing his brother from the foot of the bed. Sherlock looked intensely at his brother, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Sherlock placed a hand to his chin as he asked snidely, "You do realize that you're accusing Margaret of killing and mutilating nine people, don't you?"

"I know." Mycroft bit out. "I also know that if you could take a step back you would be able to see the possibility of it."

"Are you implying that I'm too close?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "I am doing my job. I'm trying to find our sister. Yes I might have a personal investment in this case that's clouding my decision making yet it is because of me that she's in this situation so no matter what I'm going to find her!"

Sherlock's declaration brought about a profound silence. He glared at his brother then excused himself from the room. He flounced down the hallway, past the lobby and entered outside.

An evening rain had begun to fall. It was misting the streets. Pellets of the icy water striked his face when the wind blew directly at him; it could be mistaken for ice shards. Sherlock wished he could take the rest of the night off for he didn't want to see Mycroft but he knew he had to go back inside. He inhaled deeply, thinking of the end goal, and turned to go back in.

A loud, sharp pop abruptly sounded in the air. Sherlock recognized what the noise was as the bullet penetrated his skin.

A gunshot.

* * *

**A/n**

Yay I finally wrote another chapter (at 5am though). I get writing motivation/inspiration at the weirdest times.

Thanks for being patient y'all with my spotty update times! And hope everyone is safe with all that's going on out there in the world.


	21. not an update but please read

Hi everyone! There's no need to worry about anything I wanted to let you know that you should probably reread chapters 19 and 20. I was writing a new chapter tonight but ended up majorly editing chap 20 and just the end of 19. I guess I shouldn't write at 5am anymore haha.

Also two little notices:

\- The next chapter might be a flashback

\- I'm pretty sure there's only ten chapters left in this. Yet I don't know! I might end up writing a bunch more!

Bye!


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